death march
by crea-sei
Summary: /!\ V･ᴥ･V Work In Progress. /!\ He wakes up, half-dead and terrified, and can't escape. It doesn't get any better. [world-drop!OC / OC-insert; gen; slight gore]
Hey; pikoco here.
I hope you will enjoy this story. Precisions and notes at the end of the prologue.

* * *

 **death march  
** { _prologue: story of the dead and the undead_ }

* * *

He wakes up, terrified, and finds that he can't move.

He's agonizing. His body is cold, freezing. He doesn't even know if he's breathing; he's not, but he doesn't need to.

He looks around, only half aware that he isn't supposed to be here, that he isn't supposed to be like that, because he's sure the bullet pierced his skull and lodged itself in his brain. However, he also thinks that it's alright, that he's supposed to be here, because he's in a coffin, and dead people are supposed to be buried in the dirt, in their coffins.

He's conscious. Surprisingly, that makes him start, and his sleepy brain immediately wakes up. He can't be conscious if he's dead, because dead people don't think; they don't breathe, they don't see, and they certainly don't panic.

It doesn't make sense.

He tries to move again, but his arms feel heavy, and he can't feel his legs. What is he supposed to do, anyway? He's not strong, he's weak, pathetic, and he's left all alone in his coffin. He closes his eyes again – it doesn't matter if they're open or not; he can't see anything – and slumps down. The coffin is hard and cold, it doesn't bring any comfort.

He struggles to put his arms on his chest, and intertwines his fingers. They're cold. He wants to sleep, but he can't, because he's afraid he won't wake up again. He doesn't want to die; but isn't he already dead?

He wonders about the people who buried him. He supposes they didn't notice that he was still alive, that he still is alive. Or maybe they did it on purpose. Maybe, out there, someone wants his death.

He's going to die; either lack of air, or lack of nutriments. He'll probably go insane waiting for the end.

He loses himself in thoughts, about his forever-gone family, about his friends, about his recently lost life, and doesn't even notice the moment his body begins to struggle for air, the moment his heart stops beating, and the moment he can't feel anything.

* * *

He wakes up, lost in thoughts, and is surprised to suddenly feel something.

He opens his eyes, takes a big breath of fresh air, and looks around. He isn't in the coffin anymore; instead, he is in a room, a bedroom. Above him, a fan is swirling, sending cold air onto his already freezing body. To his right, a wardrobe stands, along with a large mirror – he doesn't dare looking in it, afraid of his own reflection. On his left, there is a window; it's large, and he can see that it's nighttime. He's laid down in something comfy, a bed, surely.

He closes his eyes, and opens them again once he's sure it isn't a dream or a hallucination. He struggles to get up, and miraculously manages to sit up. His vision swims before his eyes. He swallows; his throat feels dry, and can't make a sound. He sees some strands of black hair from the corner of his eyes; they fall in front of his eyes, greasy and dirty with grim and filth.

He moves his hands, and lays them on his lap. They're shaking; he doesn't try to stop the trembling, or the fear traveling up his spine.

He blinks, and a sound comes from his right. A door opened; a man stands there, black, beady eyes fixated on his prone form. "Finally woke up?" he hears. It seems to come from the man, who takes a few steps toward him. "Took you long enough. Though I guess it's not that surprising coming from a boy sleeping in a coffin."

His own eyes follow the man's movements, but he doesn't respond. The man snorts, and shakes his head.

"Not much of a talker, huh." He puts down the plate in his hands. It's full of food; food that he doesn't need, because the dead don't need to eat, and certainly don't need to drink. "Guessed as much," the man continues. "Eat this. As soon as you're finished, you'll go. So hurry up, boy." The man's voice is harsh and cold. The man doesn't want him to stay, so he only nods.

He looks at the plate blankly, not knowing what to do. After a while, he glances back at the man, and shakes his head silently. The man's face appears surprised for a moment, before he shrugs.

"Fine. If you want to die of hunger, go ahead." The man grabs his shoulder and pushes him away from the bed. "But not in my house. You're already lucky enough that I helped you until now." He is pushed to a door, the front door he guesses. The man opens it, and pushes him again. He stumbles down the few steps. He hears the door closing behind him before he can turn around and says his goodbye – and maybe thank the man for his help.

He stares at the closed door, and wants to huff and sigh and be angry, but he can't, because he feels so empty – and he's not human anymore, he's sure.

He blinks and turns around. He looks around. It seems he's in a town, a small village surely; some people stare at him as they pass by – but they don't care; they didn't care when he was drowning, when he was burning, when he was choking—they don't care.

Slowly shaking his head, he breathes out, and straightens his back. He doesn't know where 'here' is. He's lost. He's alone.

He's dead.

He breathes in.

* * *

He wakes up, at peace, and looks at the endless blue sea.

He has set out to the sea, because it's the only thing he loves – even though it has killed him so many times – because it's the only place where he has the faintest feeling of being free. Of course, he knows that it's just a fleeting illusion, that once he will set his feet on ground again, it will disappear again.

He realizes. He knows the truth, just like he knows he's dead and can't really sleep.

He can't wake up.

He shakes his head slowly, afraid of becoming dizzy if he shakes it too hard or too fast. He looks around, and isn't surprised to see a ship coming forward, close to his own, pitiful boat. He sighs, and, looking at all the water around him, stands up. He glances back at the ship for a second or two, before staring at the sea again.

He jumps into the burning cold sea. His breath cuts off, his eyes close, and his lips turn blue—it's strange, how his body still responds normally, when in fact, it's dead, inside and out.

He doesn't know how much time he spends in the water, drowning again and again, losing his mind to the nothingness around him, and seeing the animals around him avoid him because he _smells_ like _death_ , but suddenly, he finds himself blinking at the cloudy blue sky again. There are worried shouts echoing next to him, asking for help, for _he's turning pale_ and for _he isn't breathing_. Silly them, it's not like corpses can die.

He doesn't say anything, doesn't protest at the CPR they give him, and accepts their touches gratefully. He tries to bask in the feeling of being pampered, of being cared for; he's sure they will throw him out once they realize the truth.

So he closes his eyes, and lets them take care of him.

He senses every touch, every berated breath, every muttered curse, every soft finger, every careful hand, every beating pulse, every comforting caress, and curses his inability to feel anything.

* * *

He wakes up, trying to feel the soft caress of the sheets, and tries to smile at the girl watching over him.

She looks worried, for a stranger like him, but returns the smile. She greets him, and introduces herself – Momoko – before running from the room, surely to announce his 'wake' to her mother. He waits. A woman with short hair comes in, and offers him a hesitant smile. He tries to return it, but judging by her face, it's more of a grimace than anything.

"How are you feeling, boy?" she asks, gentle and kind. She pulls a chair and sits down next to him. The little girl, Momoko, jumps on her lap, and the woman wraps her arms around her little body.

He hesitates. "Empty," he finally says, because he has been told that lying is bad, that lying is for the weak-willed. The woman's smiles falters, so he guesses that he should have lied. Maybe she's getting angry, maybe she'll throw him out now. He swallows – and he remembers doing that back then, when he could still feel nervousness making his stomach flip and twist and cold sweat run down his spine – and flexes his fingers. "Thank you for your hospitality," he whispers because, for a moment, his throat is closing up and it's hard to speak.

He glances up, takes one brief look at the woman's face, and is surprised to see worry etched onto her features. He looks down again. His pale, white hands are suddenly the most interesting things he's ever seen. "I," he stammers, "I'll go, if – if that's what you want." His nails unwillingly dig into his palms, and it doesn't hurt. He can't feel anything, except for the numbness in his brain.

The little girl seems horrified, and the woman looks sick. He breathes in.

Sliding his legs over the edge of the bed, he gets up, stumbling on his own two feet. "W-wait," the woman says, her hand closing on his shoulder. He tries to jerk away, but doesn't manage to. "You don't have to! You can stay – you haven't even recovered yet!" He gives her a long stare, trying to see what she means by that. Finally, he shakes his head, guessing that she's just being polite, and that she doesn't really want him to stay.

"No, it's alright." He gently shakes off the grip she has on his shoulder. A strange expression flickers across her face, he tries to ignore it. "I don't need to recover," he explains, and absently flexes his fingers again. "I will go." He stands up. His legs want to flex, to let him fall; they struggle to bear his own weight. For a brief moment, he doesn't know what to say anymore; finally, he settles on a hushed whisper, "Thank you for your hospitality." He bows, closing his eyes – that still water without his will.

The woman doesn't say anything. She stares at him, eyes wide, lips trembling, and fingers sporadically tightening around the little girl's waist. The little girl still seems horrified, her brow eyes wide. The two both are looking at him, and he has to resist the urge to flee.

He blinks, his eyes flickering to the ground, and nods. He turns around, and walks toward the nearest window. He hesitates, but opens it anyway. He bends over a little, and is pleased to find that he could easily jump out without having to break all his bones. He looks back, swallows, nods in thanks one last time, and jumps out – his bones give a worrying creak.

He feels sick.

* * *

He ends up staying in the little village.

* * *

(1) This story has been sitting on my computer for quite a long time, and I just finished the prologue recently; so the writing style may seem a little different. I hope you don't mind.

(2) Huh. This prologue is quite short, but, you know, it's a prologue. The next chapters should be longer… or, at least, I hope so.

(3) Please, don't forget to leave a review, favorite, follow, or just come back again. The very best would be a review, but I'm not forcing you. (If you have any question, don't hesitate.)

Thank you all for reading.


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